


Every Dead Yesterday

by tanyart



Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Amnesia, Clubbing, Existential Angst, Future War Cult Partying, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-21
Updated: 2019-08-21
Packaged: 2020-09-23 15:00:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20342032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tanyart/pseuds/tanyart
Summary: Future War Cult's throwing a party. Pahanin checks it out. He meets a Warlock. They dance and have a good (un)time.





	Every Dead Yesterday

Future War Cult’s latest open house party is a loud, boisterous affair in the Peregrin District, way deep within the City walls where it’s safe to beam spotlights into the sky. From outside, Pahanin takes stock of the clubhouse, smiling at all its flashing neon lights and sleek purple banners. He isn’t one for taking Faction sides or involving himself in City politics, but he does enjoy a night out. Better than being stuck with a blank document page and a dusty keyboard at any rate.

Tonight seems like FWC is his best bet to cure his restless feet on short notice. Can’t really take an impromptu trip out into the Wilds without a fireteam, and the Crucible hasn’t been fun since that nutcase Yor started dominating the leaderboards. There are better ways to get his ass kicked, and if Pahanin wants to get trashed he’d go to the bar, _which_ —

Word on the streets say FWC is trialing some hash that gives visions of the future. Pahanin likes a good gimmick. Besides, FWC’s been on a roll lately; nice venues, nice views, and even nicer booze at their mixers. Everyone knows they’re angling for a higher seat on the Consensus. Free drinks and free drugs can very well get them that seat. Some say even their guns are nice, and Pahanin’s been hurting to spend some Glimmer anyhow.

He tweaks his cloak, pulling down the hood and letting the folds settle around his shoulders._ Squid Pro Quo_ is always a hit for attention. Pahanin nods at the two Titan bouncers and steps in.

All at once there’s smoke in his eyes and music blasting in his ears. In front of him, a whole dance floor is lit up with lively bodies and a kaleidoscope of colors. Pahanin grins. It’s hard not to be impressed. With all the manufactured fog and flashing lights, everything seems to move in glimpses of motion. It reminds of Pahanin gunfire in the dark, sparks of light peppering a blanket of void, the glow of Vex bellies —

A Warlock in the far corner of the room catches his attention. It feels like an accident, though Pahanin can pinpoint why his gaze lingers for a half-second too long; the entire clubhouse is alive, loud bass shaking the air and thrumming through his veins. Everything bursts with movement, everything but the Warlock, who stands too still, frozen in time for the quick moment Pahanin meets their gaze by chance.

The bright bond at the Warlock’s arm flickers like a broken lamp turning on. A Ghost flashes above their shoulder, its blue eye twinkling with just enough brightness for Pahanin to catch the fleeting grin across the Warlock’s face.

His mind blanks.

The song changes, and the dancefloor blooms with a new color. A crowd of people walk pass, laughing, blocking his line of sight. Pahanin blinks, and the Warlock is gone. When Pahanin tries to recall a face — _that grin_ — it feels like running down a flight of stairs and suddenly missing a step.

Ah, well. That’s a Warlock for you. Always with the funky mysterious vibes. Pahanin glances up to check the ceiling, per usual. Lucky for him there are only lighting drones hovering around and not much else to note. He shakes his head, takes a rueful sniff.

The clubhouse smells pleasant — a heavy sweetness in the air, a little intoxicating, a little sickly. It makes Pahanin’s mouth water, eager to get some of that adrenaline for himself, so he heads towards the bar. He’s met with a smiling bartender with a map of constellations across her shoulders and down one arm. There are coordinates tattooed on her fingers, written in binary code.

“Hunter, my man, you lookin’ to forget or remember?” she asks, her artificial irises focusing on him.

Pahanin raises an eyebrow. “Thought this joint was all about seein’ the future.”

“It is. A little Vision told me you’d be wanting one or the other.” The bartender holds out the two sample packets of maassel, shaking them with a wry smile. “Well? What’ll it be?”

Pahanin thinks about the Warlock across the dancefloor, the uncomfortable tug in the back of his mind, like having a word right on the tip of his tongue but unable to recall it. “Forget.”

The bartender gives him a look, and then hands him both.

* * *

Pahanin smokes the whole lot, both packets. It takes some time since he’s not that brash, but he’s been set up in some corner booth for at least an hour, out-smoking a couple of other party-goers until he’s alone. The glass vase bubbles and bubbles, and he’s refilled the water three times already. The packet of Forget tastes like gunpowder and war, the smoke from his mouth comes out in thin white wisps like threads from a frayed coat. The packet of Remember is a touch too sweet on his tongue, but it’s warm and mellow like autumn sunlight when he exhales.

He is undoubtedly,_ incredibly_ high right now.

“You shouldn’t take in that much,” says Super Good Advice.

“Thought I left you back in the vault,” Pahanin drawls, smoke curling from his mouth. He tips his head to the side where the machine gun should be. To his surprise, there’s the Warlock, looking down at him. Pahanin straightens, embarrassed, and lowers the pipe from his mouth. “Oh, thought you were my gun.”

“You made a talking gun?”

“Hey, it gets lonely sometimes,” Pahanin says, discreetly rolling his shoulders. The weight of Super Good Advice is not there, the long barrel against his back almost a missing comfort. It really _is_ back in the vault. He pauses, confused. It’s not like him to leave it behind.

The silence stretches for a second too long. The Warlock’s brow furrows. “You alright?”

Pahanin exhales smoke through his nose, a little too quickly. He puts the pipe down. Maybe the Warlock’s right, maybe he did have too much maassel. “I’m fine.”

It takes him another moment to realize how the Warlock sounds a lot like Super Good Advice — and not just because the advice is likely on good authority. He’d made the AI system himself, right down to the vocals and intonation. The Warlock’s voice isn’t an exact match, a touch too deep and obviously _human_, but the inflection, the cadence... it rings familiar.

There really shouldn’t be another gun — or person — like Super Good Advice.

But maybe it's for that reason Pahanin tries again.

“Sorry, I’m Pahanin—” he begins, and watches as a muscle in the Warlock’s jaw twitches. Huh. Weird. Not wanting to upset the guy further, Pahanin leans closer into the Warlock’s space, which is an incredible feat considering how fucked up he is on FWC hash. He puts on one of his charming smiles that used to get Kabr staring at his mouth. “You go by anything other than tall, dark, and handsome?”

If anything, the expression on the Warlock’s face stills, but it only lasts a moment before the Warlock flashes him a smile, ready to play.

“Name’s Praedyth,” the Warlock says, and waits a beat, like he wants Pahanin to react to it. When Pahanin only blinks, his smile tics again, neon-lit from the club’s dancefloor. “... Nice to meet you.”

Pahanin eases back, head spinning. The music’s starting to pound in his skull. The Warlock’s smile makes his heart stutter in place, dazzling him as much as the clubhouse lights. It should make Pahanin excited and eager, but something deep within his chest aches instead. He can’t figure out why. “Same. Listen. I’ve seen you before.”

“Probably,” Praedyth says, and he laughs, quiet. Pahanin shouldn’t have been able to hear it over this noise, but he can imagine it, every hitch and breath, the whole rhythm of Praedyth’s words like a familiar beat. “We must have gone on a few strikes together.”

Pahanin doesn’t understand how Praedyth can be so patient. As far as he can tell, he’s missing every single damn shot, and Praedyth’s giving him every indication that he’s interested. “Aw, shoot,” he says, struggling to recall, mortified that he can’t. “I don’t really... remember.”

“I don’t expect you to,” Praedyth says, amused, but there’s a weary note in his voice. It makes Pahanin want to sink into the floor.

In fact, Pahanin’s not really sure of the last time he’s been on a strike. Not since Kabr and, and, and — _well_. That can’t be right, can it? He’s kept busy, helping the Vanguard, playing Crucible, so _why_…

Praedyth leans in, hand coming up to Pahanin’s shoulder. He bends his head to Pahanin’s ear. “Wanna dance?”

The question is like a lifeline tossed out to sea, just for him. Pahanin takes it gratefully. He wants to kick himself for being such a huge doofus, and a part of him wants to blame it on the maassel, but that would admit to having too much. Centuries old and can’t hold his psychedelics? Embarrassing. Pahanin takes Praedyth by the hand and springs up from his seat, movements graceful and smooth by sheer force of will, he’s sure.

Praedyth laughs, stumbling, caught by Pahanin’s arm going around his waist. It could be the maassel smoke still lingering around them, but he smells of golden sunlight. When Pahanin swallows out of unexpected nervousness, the taste in his throat is sweet.

They dance to a song Pahanin feels like he’s heard before. He tries to hum the lyrics, but he can’t find the words. The rhythm is fast, the melody simple. Despite bumping into other dancers, all Pahanin can do is focus on Praedyth’s body against his. He knows every time Praedyth touches him, every brush of their fingers, and he’s sure Praedyth’s doing it on purpose.

“Not your type of song?” he asks, just for the excuse to put his mouth near Praedyth’s ear.

Praedyth leans into him, breath warm at his cheek. He makes a sign with his hand, pinky and forefinger up. “Pre-Golden Age rock’s more my speed.”

The hard bassline of a song trickles in the back of Pahanin’s mind. There’s a million Pre-Golden Age rock songs out there, but he hums the one and Praedyth’s whole face lights up.

“One of my favorites,” Praedyth mouths, since the EDM playing starts going loud at that point.

“Should ask if the DJ takes requests,” Pahanin starts, unable to help himself. He’s desperate to impress, see if he can set off that happy look in Praedyth again, but Praedyth shakes his head and loops his arms around Pahanin’s shoulders.

“Let’s keep dancing,” he says, flashing him a brilliant grin. He draws Pahanin in, still moving to the beat. Their noses almost touch, and more than once Praedyth teases his fingers along Pahanin’s jaw.

_I’d dance to any song with you_, Pahanin thinks numbly. He wouldn’t dare say it though, and he feels like an idiot for even thinking it. They’ve just met, and Pahanin isn’t in the habit of throwing himself out there so fast.

But it doesn’t feel like love at first sight. Things might be easier to understand if it had been.

It feels like a dream. Pahanin dances, spins with Praedyth, and doesn’t feel clumsy for it. It’s not like being drunk or intoxicated, so it leaves Pahanin unnerved, like he ought to shoot himself and make sure he resurrects sober. More than anything, he wants to start over with Praedyth and be in his right state of mind.

(Sometimes, he thinks he hasn’t really been in his right mind since Kabr… since that time, since the day he woke up on Venus—)

Their steps match up perfect. Too perfect. They’ve done this before. Pahanin’s heart is in his throat.

On impulse, he lets his head fall on Praedyth’s shoulder, turning into the curve of his neck. For a one night stand, it’s a bold move. They don’t miss a beat, dancing. “You wanna get outta here?”

Praedyth’s hands still at his waist. He doesn’t back away, but when Pahanin pulls back to look, there’s a knit in his brow. “I can’t… leave,” Praedyth says, reluctant.

“Oh. You came with friends?” Pahanin asks, looking over his shoulder. It’s not the first time he’s been bamboozled by a crafty Warlock who just happens to already be with a rather possessive Titan, looking for a threesome. _Oh, damn. Where did that idea come from, Pahanin?_

The corner of Praedyth’s mouth hitches up, as if sensing Pahanin’s thoughts. He shakes his head. “No. I just… gotta stay here. In this building.”

And he sounds so miserable Pahanin’s chest tightens with the need to set Praedyth at ease. “Here is fine,” he assures, and leads Praedyth off the dancefloor.

“Where are we going?”

“Where’s the fun in telling you? You look the type to like a nice surprise.”

“_Hah_,” Praedyth says, following him. There’s a funny catch in his voice.

Their fingers are laced together. It’s unfairly intimate. Pahanin should think it’s weird, _one of them should think it’s weird_, but he’s stumbling down the metaphorical flight of stairs yet again.

Well, maybe not stairs. And maybe not down. They take the elevator, after Pahanin hacks it. It’s bound to tip off security in a couple of hours, but it’s better than crawling through the vents.

Pahanin hacks the elevator music too. They listen to Pre-Golden Age rock all the way up, and the uncomplicated way Praedyth’s grin hits him is not like anything Pahanin has felt before.

(_Thinks_ he’s felt before. Somehow.)

The empty balcony is a quiet spot that Pahanin’s seen while checking out the business front of FWC’s clubhouse. It’s behind a giant neon sign in the shadow of the ‘F’ in FWC. Purple light paints the part of the balcony, interspaced with yellow and orange outlines.

Praedyth lets go Pahanin’s hand to step forward and peer over the railings. Lines of orange light cross his shoulders with cuts of vivid yellow at his chest. The City’s nightlights illuminate Praedyth’s eyes gold. He’s a sunset, glowing too late at night.

Pahanin stares, vision blurring. He suddenly feels very, very lonely.

“You wouldn’t happen to mind if I kiss you, would you?” he asks. His voice comes out teasing, way too confident, even for him. He sounds like an asshole. He quickly amends, “A little bit?”

Praedyth turns. The purple light from FWC’s neon sign fades his silhouette, hiding his expression, but he walks back to put his hands at both sides of Pahanin’s face, and Pahanin is stricken by the detail of Praedyth’s thumb brushing across his lower lip. It feels right, like when they’d dance together in perfect rhythm. Pahanin can barely breathe.

Praedyth leans in and kisses him. It’s warm, in every sense of the word.

Rationality tells Pahanin that this is too daring, too forward to kiss Praedyth back so deeply. He rests between Praedyth’s palms, wavering, and craves something more. The kiss turns into a playful nip that turns into a gentle push against the wall that turns into a slow grinding of hips that threatens to set Pahanin on fire. He could burn up like this, turn into the very smoke and ash that he’s blown out of his lungs just hours ago.

But it’s so nice to feel Praedyth’s hands on his body, even through his clothes. It helps that Praedyth isn’t shy either, doesn’t question why Pahanin turns to every touch or wraps around him and holds on tight. Praedyth makes it easy, makes everything seem so simple.

Pahanin feels himself slide down the wall, gasping like he can’t hold his weight anymore, and Praedyth sinks down with him.

“Pahanin,” he murmurs, settling into his lap. He lowers his head for another searing kiss.

Hearing his own name has never sounded so sweet. Pahanin starts to work open the front of Praedyth’s coat, eager to peel away the layers, eager to have Praedyth not seem like a distant stranger.

It’s probably because he hasn’t been with anyone in a while, but looking up at Praedyth makes Pahanin giddy — unreasonably _happy_ — and he hadn’t realized he'd been unhappy until now.

Praedyth shifts with him, breaking off this kiss so that he can get at Pahanin’s pants, then his own. It only takes a moment. Praedyth’s eyes flutter shut when Pahanin finally gets a hold of him, bucking into Pahanin’s hand, making Pahanin rock back against him. Pahanin feels silly for all the romantic notions that buzz in his head, his writer’s mind getting away from him — shit like arching to every touch, moving as one, breathing each other’s air, wanting so much it starts to ache. Stupid, but suddenly all true. His hand strokes upwards, slow, and Praedyth makes a pleased noise, dropping a kiss at his forehead.

Pahanin blinks, surprised by his lack of surprise. Praedyth’s hand between his legs tightens, rhythm unsteady, but Pahanin nudges his hip upwards again. He feels as if he can anticipate Praedyth’s every move, somehow, like he knows what to do beyond the mechanics of sex. He knows what Praedyth wants, feels it every time they kiss or sway closer into each other.

Pahanin’s breath hitches with a silent laugh, overcome with the funny realization that FWC’s future-seeing drugs really work. He mouths along Praedyth’s jawline. _Who would’ve thought._

It’s enough to kiss and have their hands over each other. Pahanin spills himself first, with Praedyth’s eyes on him. Not to be outdone, Pahanin sits up to kiss him long and slow, pouring in every indulgence into it, and Praedyth tips over with a trembling voice that sounds tailored to Pahanin’s ears only.

Pahanin slumps back, dazed, stars in the night sky spinning. Praedyth peers down at him, looking messy but pleased. Pahanin can’t help but grin back. Luckily, good ol’ Squid Pro Quo makes for a nice towel. He clumsily uses a corner to clean some of the mess off them and wipe his hand. That way, he can pats his pockets for some extra hash and his pipe.

Praedyth snaps a bit of Solar flame from his fingertips to light it for him. Their hands take turns cupping the little pipe, giving all the excuse to stay in each other’s spaces. Pahanin takes the first puff, and holds it out for Praedyth.

Praedyth shakes his head, happily flushed, and lays down so that he can rest his head against Pahanin’s shoulder. Pahanin’s free hand automatically comes up to play through the short strands for a bit, watching how the corners of Praedyth’s eyes crinkle in a smile because of it.

He feels strangely settled, which isn’t a feeling most Hunters come by often. It’s… good. Familiar. Like his days back with Kabr, even though they were anything but settled. Pahanin trails his fingers down, picks at the loose white threads on Praedyth’s frayed coat, the mossy material soft between his fingertips. For the first time, he notices rust on the armor.

Praedyth mumbles into his neck, voice soft. “I miss you.”

Pahanin swears he’s misheard. He forgets about the rust. “I’m sorry?”

Praedyth goes quiet, a guilty sort of silence. It’s unbearable. Pahanin opens his mouth, shuts it, then wishes he is as good with saying words as he is with writing them. He needs to say something. _Anything._

“Hey…uh, I don’t know what’s happened. You know me, I can see that, but I can’t remember. I think there must be something wrong,” Pahanin says, waving the pipe. He shakes his head, takes another drag to fortify himself. Beside him, Praedyth has gone still. “I don't wanna sound weird or anything, but there’s a pang in my chest when I look at you. It hurts. So, you know, I think I miss you, too—” he starts to stutter.

“—missed you—” his breath skips, “—have missed—

—Will miss you,” he finishes, confused as Praedyth sits up.

Praedyth looks gutted. “I know you’re trying. The dimensions are thin here.”

That doesn’t make any sense. Pahanin’s mind whirls in circles. He can hear the music from the club again, rumbling through the floors. There’s the taste of gunfire smoke at his lips, intermingled with the hash’s sharp flavor. Praedyth’s face seems to flicker in and out of his vision with the neon lights. One moment Praedyth looks sad, and then next he’s smiling like he’s just said something funny.

“Ahh, good. So it wasn’t just bad hash.” Pahanin rubs his eyes. They’ve gone all dry.

Praedyth’s burst of laughter rings in his ears. Pahanin would give anything to not forget it. “Well, I think we owe the hash some credit.”

Pahanin puts the pipe to his lips. His hands are shaky. “Gotta get me some more of the stuff.”

“Oh, don’t do that. Lakshmi-2’s brilliant, but I wouldn’t recommend getting involved in City politics,” Praedyth says, still laughing, “You shouldn’t take in that much, anyway.”

“Huh?” The words echo, fuzzing out at the edges. It’s as if Pahanin’s hearing has gotten hands, and they’re trying to grasp something out of each. He thinks, not for the first time, Praedyth sounds familiar. “Did I ever tell you... you really sound like my gun?”

Praedyth’s expression softens. “You should listen to it more often.”

Pahanin feels like he’s slipping. “You’d think, right? It’s why I named it Super Good Advice.” He starts to babble, wanting to spill over and keep talking to Praedyth about what has happened, what he’s done over the past few years. “I love that gun, though, I really do. After Kabr died, I… Well. It got lonely. Did I tell you that already? I think I did. Kabr was a part of my fireteam. Him and I. Him, me, and…”

Praedyth’s smile tics.

The world shudders to a halt. Praedyth sharpens into focus, every detail vivid like the color of his laugh, the vibration of his Solar Light, the constant warmth of his hands, the way his smile isn’t reaching his eyes. Time freezes, shifts, starts oozing slow like thick, viscous radiolaria.

Panic seizes Pahanin.

“I know you,” he croaks, miserable;_ I should know you, I knew you, I will know y— _

He’s going to forget, because he’s talking to someone who’s not even a ghost, not even a passing thought in anyone’s mind. He wants to say Praedyth’s name, but he can’t. He’s not allowed. He hasn’t said it ever, not for this whole night since he’s known him, and he will never get to say it now, or tomorrow, or yesterday.

Praedyth pulls the pipe away from his slack hand, lighting it again. He takes a puff, the very last bit of it, and holds it.

He pushes Pahanin down, looking so incredibly sad but fond.

“Breathe, Pahanin,” Praedyth says, against his lips.

Pahanin shuts his eyes, and breathes in the smoke from Praedyth’s mouth.

* * *

Pahanin exhales. He feels vaguely sick. The smoke from his mouth tastes like ash.

“You shouldn’t take in that much,” says Super Good Advice, heavy at his back and heavy with sarcasm. “And I have another suggestion, if you like to hear it; it’s time to go.”

The fog in his head clears. He’s up on FWC’s balcony, staring out into the City. He’s alone, and it’s dawn.

Pahanin sighs, wondering where the lingering sweetness on his tongue had come from, but he snuffs out the hash and puts down the pipe. Gives Super Good Advice a reassuring pat against its barrel.

He breathes in, just the cold morning air. “Yeah.”

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from the [Future War Cult Warlock Bond](https://www.ishtar-collective.net/items/no-tomorrow) flavor text; _"For every dead yesterday there waits a new dawn, with no promise of tomorrow."_


End file.
